


Pre-Flight Check

by pilotisms



Series: Poe/Punchy [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Poe Dameron (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fly-boy Poe, Hate to Love, Leia is a matchmaker, Matchmaker BB-8, New Republic Navy culture too, Pilot Reader, Poe is Jealous, Protective Poe Dameron, Reader-Insert, Resistance Starfighter Corp culture, Slow Burn, and stubborn reader, and you are two, metal bikinis, one mission gone sour, pining masked as hatred, reader can b ur angle or ur devil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: You're Black Squadron's new guard-point, fresh out of the New Republic's Navy.You and Poe Dameron do not get along.Leia plans on fixing that.





	1. The Incident.

**Author's Note:**

> The infamous TIE Fighter incident, recounted by you.

The Resistance was built off risky fly maneuvers, built off engine-cuts mid-flight, built off dive-bombs, built off bailing last minute. 

Luke Skywalker set an example for an entire generation of cadets in the New Republic’s Navy – Poe being one of those cadets himself, was known among the Resistance as Black Leader  _and_ verified daredevil when it came to taking risks in the air. 

You’ve watched the man drop 500 feet with a dead engine to dodge missile fire – his x-wing is notoriously temperamental – before kicking in his boosters at the last minute, narrowly avoiding an explosive crash into Snap’s own ship. He barreled away from it, laughing and rolling through the air of Akiva. You’d laughed alongside him then, cheered him through the sky as he’d made quick work of the TIE fighters who’d prompted the move.

He’s written an example – he’s become a hero among the newer pilots like yourself. 

You’d been hand-picked out of a batch of cadets to serve on Black Squadron. 

And, now two missions in, here you are, locked in a dizzying tail spin with a blown back servo-rudder, locked in a chase with the TIE who’d done it, and Poe Dameron has the  _audacity_ to be the one screaming in  _your_  commlink – 

“ _PULL UP, KID, YOU’RE GOING DOWN – PULL UP!”_  


Your poor little astrodroid, A3-C8, is hammering away at the motherboard and you snap the engine on and off, trying to reboot the rudder and it’s components – the x-wing gives a shudder in protest and you have to fight the urge to vomit as you careen across the sky. Panic is starting to rise as you cry out in irritation; the g-force is really  _something_ , bubbling a woozy yelp from your throat. 

You try to remember what they taught you in the Academy. You begin a mental check-list, working through the steps.  _How to Stabilize Your Air-Craft._

The TIE under the gut of your ship seems to be having the same malfunction – the volley you’d shared has you both locked in each other’s EM fields. Across the sky, smoke twirls together from the flaming back wings of each ship. 

_ “FOR KRIFF’S SAKE, PULL UP!”  _

“I’m  _trying_ , alright?!” you shriek, giving the engine one last kick – and sure enough, the back-up stabilizer hums to life as A3-C8 gives a proud whirr.  


With the confidence of Commander Dameron, you hammer the joystick back. You grip the siding of the cockpit, yelling loudly as the ground begins to approach rapidly. You punch the gas, boosters and repulse-lift glowing a hot blue as you suddenly dislodge yourself from the TIE’s orbit.

Just in time, too.

You skim the water of Ovanis’ sea, laser-tips cutting the waves and sending a spray along the cockpit window. 

You let your back him the seat, breath released fast from your lungs. 

When you get back to the hangar, your knees are like jello from the adrenaline rush – A3-C8 pops from it’s place and begins to run circles in relief around your landing gear. Meanwhile, you stand on shaky limbs and climb from the cockpit only to meet the one and only Poe Dameron at the bottom of your docking ladder.

He’s still in his flight gear, black helmet secured to his head as he scowls.

You know you’re in for it by the look.

“That was stupid,” he says, “That entire stunt.”  


“It wasn’t a stunt –”  


“I don’t want to hear it,” he starts walking away and you, slack-jawed at his behavior, follow, “You could have died.”  


“I’m sorry,  _Commander_ ,” you chirp, catching up to his strides and giving him an incredulous look from the side, “Sorry –  _you_  are telling  _me_ …? Oh my god. Oh my  _god.”_  


You throw your hands, storming in-front of him and making for the command center.

_“Oh my god_ , what?” he snaps back, head reeling backwards as he pauses in the hallway outside the hangar. Around you, pilots and engineers dodge back and forth. A few side-way glances are spared your way, but you two are so busy locked in the pissing match, neither noticed, “Seriously, kid, you’re a piece of work.”  


“One, you’re the king of stunts, Commander,” you shoot back, turning on your heel and glaring at him through your yellow tinted visor, “Two, all due respect, but I’m not a  _kid_ , okay? Okay. Thanks, good talk!”  


You turn to walk away, wanting to dismiss this  _entire_ discussion totally, but it seems like Black Leader isn’t really done with you yet.

Really, he thinks it’s kind of amusing. You’ve got this spitfire personality that doesn’t change when you’re out of the cockpit; you’re new to the squadron, a fresh recruit out of the New Republic’s Navy. You’re still learning – and Poe knows that feeling of invincibility like the back of his hand.

“You’re fresh out the flight academy,” he laughs, “Hate to break it to you –”

“Oh, you’re really something, aren’t you? Never thought I’d hear the one and only Poe Dameron pull the  _holier than thou_ card.”

Poe rolls his eyes and behind him, BB-8 gives a warning beep. The gesture reels you into a scoff.

“I’ve watched you barrel out of the sky thanks to a faulty transmission and an inability to cut a stall – at least when I’m falling out of the sky, it’s thanks to an actual hit.”  


You’re in his face now, albeit that you’re sneering upwards at him. You jab his chest every other word, eyes set in anger – the insult pokes at his pride and Commander Dameron steps forward, raising a finger and gritting his teeth. “At least I don’t get hit.”

Your mouth drops and Poe smirks.

“At least I’m not –”

“Do you two mind?” it’s Snap, standing in the doorway to the hangar. His helmet is tucked under his arm, “Command is waiting.”  


You pull back, crossing your arms over your flight vest and cocking a hip. Poe watches you, brows narrowing as you huff and release your cold stare.

“Sure, Snap,” you say, “Sorry. Yeah, I’m coming.”  


“You too, Poe.”

Poe throws his hands, pulling his helmet from his head and sighing – he gives Snap a look, falling in step with his team member. Wexley gives him a look and Poe dismisses it.

“She’ll learn,” Snap says, “She will.”  


“Yeah, well,” Poe mutters, “Let’s not set anymore bad examples.”  


Snap laughs. “That’s  _all you_ , Poe.”

“Oh, shut it.”


	2. Punchy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You live up to an old nick-name. Poe digs himself a grave. Leia is fed up.

_ Punchy.  _

Your drill squad gave you that nickname back at the academy. Whether it was a testament to your spitfire personality or speed in the sky, you were never really sure. 

Black Squadron doesn’t  _give_ you a nickname – they refer to you in the sky as Black 3, guard-point position in most missions. You had a dominant habit of banking to the right; it lined you up for the position of protecting Commander Dameron’s own personal blind-spot. Snap Wexley is your counter balance. Poe’s left side isn’t nearly as weak. Snap’s got it easy.

You didn’t  _like_ being anchored to Poe’s every move; but, you’re good at playing defense. There’s a  _reason_ why you were hand selected for Black Squadron. 

You’ve always been an offensive flyer. You make moves, cut engines, shoot sharp. You’re a natural, but Karé, L’ulo, and Jessika had a tight formation and their roles as forward-fighters had been honed after months of missions. That being said, you and Snap busy yourself with saving Poe’s reckless ass while The Terrible Three careen across the skies and decimate the playing field.

All in all, Black Squadron dominates. 

Stiletto, Dagger and Cobalt Squadron aren’t nearly as close in the standings – there was a reason every pilot in the Resistance Starfighter Corp looked up to Poe Dameron. 

And you couldn’t  _stand it._ Or  _him._

The reputation you’d built for yourself in the academy meant nothing here – on D’Qar, the base didn’t really  _care_ about top-of-the-class pilots. They cared about performance. About fast heroes. And sure, yeah, it bothered you, mostly since you were the one making sure Poe  _landed_ after every mission. 

It was probably the hair. Or the jaw-line.

Maybe the smile.

God! He was  _insufferable._ Poster child of the Resistance, your ass. He was cocky and reckless and he got away with all of it – probably because he could knock anyone off beat with a carefully calculated smile and a bat of those lashes.

_ Eugh.  _

It didn’t work on you.

You’re under the belly of your T-68 X-Wing, jumpsuit smeared in grease as you cram your arm into the shift gears that have been giving your trouble ever since three missions ago. After getting caught in the TIE Fighter’s EM field, your downshifts had been all out of sync. 

(That “ _stunt”,_ as Poe called it, had grounded you for the rest of the mission – he’d put in word with Leia that you needed to cool-off. Ever since, the two of you could hardly sit in the same room. And  _still,_ you got in the air and did your job. You may be stubborn, but you’re not a  _child._ Serving in Black Squadron was something you didn’t want to lose.)

You’ve been putting this maintenance off for long enough, now. You were one of the few pilots on the base who preferred to do their own repairs, but this one was  _difficult._ Time consuming. So here you are on hour three, wrist deep in the guts of your X-Wing.

By your ankles your astro-droid, A3-C8, gives a concerned beeeeee _eee_ p. 

_Careful,_ it says,  _the wiring is delicate._

“I know, Ace, it’s fine,” you chirp back, tongue poking out as you close your eyes and try to visualize the wires you’re tugging at, “Nothin’ I haven’t done before.”  


You lean up on your tippy-toes, boots scuffing the polished dura-cement of the hangar floor. This is annoying. If only you could  _see,_ but no – the underside of your model wasn’t lit up like Poe’s – his T-70 was  _nice._ Shiny.  _New._

Speak of the devil.

“Need help, shorty?”  


Your eyes twitches as you jump. And you proceed yank the gear box clean out in it’s entirety. 

A3-C8 gives a low whir as the wiring sparks. 

_ Oh no. _

Slowly, you deflate, hands dropping to your knees as you drop your head in defeat. Annoyance is tense in your shoulders. Slow breaths. In and out.

(You try to remember the anger management training you were mandated to report to after starting a fight in the mess your first year in the academy. Maybe  _that’s_ where the nickname came from.)  


Behind you, Poe’s got a starfruit in his hand, jaw moving as he chews slowly. 

When you stand, your hair is wild and the grease is streaked up your arm. You turn on your heel, walking past him briskly and shoving the gear shift into his chest. The look on your face  _should_ deter him. But, it doesn’t. Poe’s got an attitude, too. And you’re about ready to give him an adjustment.

It smears grease across his white, cotton long sleeve.

He recoils.

“What the –”  


“No!” you bite back, storming past him and slamming your toolbox shut, “No, no. Nope, you can take that, and you can shove it up your ass, Commander.”  


Poe’s brows raise. It’s  _a challenging_ gesture. He cradles the gear cog in his hands, inspecting it as he takes another bite of his starfruit. Through a full mouth, he chirps:

“Wassamatter, shorty? Gears gettin’ stuck?”  


* * *

You had laid Commander Poe Dameron out cold on the hangar floor.

If Leia knew any better (she does, she’s keen on having her two best pilots working this out, though), she’d have demoted you and separated you both – you’d go to Stiletto Squadron and he’d stay Black Leader. 

But, here she is, sitting you both down in that dimly lit office of hers.

Poe’s got an ice-pack over his nose, wads of cotton gauze rolled and shoved up his nostrils to stop the bleeding. You, all the while, are rocking a mean mug and busted knuckles. The ice-pack taped to your fists isn’t help cool down your attitude.

Poe’s no better – he’s  _pissed,_ arms crossed and knee jumping as he waits for Leia to begin. Under the eyes of the woman he considered as a mother-figure, he feels a bit like a child scorned.

“Both of you,” she says, “Need to get over –”  


She gestures between you both. 

“–Whatever  _this_ is.”  


“Ma’am –”  


“Leia –”  


“Can it. Both of you,” she snaps, wise eyes jumping between you both. From behind her desk, you both shrink a bit. Silence smothers you and Poe, “Now, I can do one of two things.”  


You squirm in your seat. Poe’s brows are set in irritation. He looks funny though – nose stuffed in gauze. Totally worth it.

“I can demote you both, pull you from your squadron’s and ground you.”  


Okay, maybe  _not._ Poe is nearly  _immediate_ in his challenging of that, but in one move, Leia silences him like the royalty she is. She raises one finger. It’s shuts him up so quick you nearly laugh. 

“Or, I can send you both to the Outer Rim on a reconnaissance mission and forget  _this_ incident ever happened. You’ll get us the information promised from one of our liaisons, and you’ll  _square this away._ We don’t have  _time_ for in-fighting among our ranks.”

It’s pretty easy to guess which one you both choose.


	3. Well-Aimed Jabs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Poe continue to butt-heads. The three days leading up to the mission send off puts you both on wrong feet for the week long assignment.

Poe Dameron had his  _own_ reputation to keep up.

One that, now, was tarnished with the shiner decorating his right eye. 

It’s fine –  _totally_   _fine_ – Poe tells himself. But, I mean, being laid out by his own Lieutenant isn’t something he’s exactly proud of. To him, you’re still a  _cadet_ despite your officer status and skill. You’re  _new_ – and Poe is… well. He’s  _Poe._

Poster boy of the Resistance, remember? 

Even if he didn’t want to admit it, he had an ego.

The next three days are tense to say the  _least_. Poe makes sure to sit at least an arm’s reach away from you; Snap makes a good buffer, and L’ulo thinks it’s  _hilarious_ that Poe flinches every time you fork your dinner. The snickers of the other squadrons aren’t lost on him either.

Avoiding any direct interaction that might get him  _stabbed_ with a plastic fork from the mess gives him enough time to  _watch_ you, though, and Poe settles  _quick_ that he can’t stand how  _good you are._ You’re pretty, witty, smart – and when Jessika asks if you could check the calibration on her laser tips, Poe  _feels_ himself scowl when you happily accept. 

_ Pfft. Sure. Yeah. There’s that stupid smile. Whatever. _

You’re grounded on the first day of mission prep, working well into the night on replacing the gear shift you’d unceremoniously yanked from your x-wing the day before. 

You’re  _ruthless_ during drills the next day.

When the challenge of a race is proposed during warm-ups, despite it being against regulations, you’re already leaping into the cockpit and kicking in your boosters to leave Cobalt Squadron’s Lieutenant in the spray of D’Qar’s Garalan lakes. Poe, from his place on land with the rest of Black Squadron, watches you careen across the sunrise – your own mods that have souped up your T-68 put you ahead of the competition by yards.

Snap nudges his shoulder.

“She’s good.”  


“She’s reckless.”  


There’s a loud  _ching!_ as you pass through the first set of rings suspended in the sky. They’re usually used for technical skill runs. The positions are tight together. Poe watches as your X-Wing’s bow swings and the back thrusters glow  _blue_ as you skid through the gravity pull and kick it forward. 

You pass through the second set of rings with ease.

Snap laughs. 

“Sounds like you’re talking about yourself there, Poe.”  


_ Ching!  _

Poe’s eye twitches. 

* * *

“Nice run earlier,” Poe says slowly, elbows on the bar as he leans forward, “Almost beat  _my_ time.”

You spare him a single glance. Your brow raises high and Poe notices the light shimmer around your eyes. You’d cleaned up – usual jumpsuit and engine grease abandoned for a set of jet black ensemble topped off with your trusty flight jacket. Your Naval wings and rank glint in the light. 

~~He wonders absentmindedly if you’re here to see someone – probably not, right? Who would _willingly_ spend time with you? Not him. Not… like that’s what he’s doing right now.~~

Snatching a beer from Gustav (a service tech who claimed bar-tending was a hobby and really didn’t mind tending to the storage-unit-turned-watering-hole), you’re tempted to  _walk away_. The beer is warm, having been sitting in storage for the last week and a half unattended – the supply lines were being choked off by the First Order. Dagger Squadron had been sent out last week to fix the problem. 

Luckily, a lot of beer came in. Sadly, not a lot of food. Rations are tight.

But, beer keeps moral up. Even if it tasted like Bantha piss. 

You make a sour face, washing the taste down with another swig and Poe pulls an amused look that has you itching to give him a matching shiner on the other side. 

“Don’t like it?”  


“Are you trying to get me mad?”  


“Just trying to make  _conversation_ –” he raises his hands, beer dangling from his fingers.  


“Yeah, well,” you swig your beer again and make moves for the door, “Why don’t you save it for our little  _mission_. We’ll have plenty of time to make small talk then.”  


D’Qar’s summers make for a pleasant night’s sleep. Warm enough, but cool and quiet. Other’s had the same idea of venturing to the air-field – the storage-unit-turned-watering-hole was always crowded, so the surrounding area quickly became an extension of said drinking spot. You find a spot by one of the small fires and settle against an ammo crate. 

Poe follows and you roll your eyes.

“Do you mind?”  


“No,” he chirps, settling beside you, “Why, do  _you_?”  


“Yes. Because,” you battle back, “You’re a pain in my  _ass_.”  


“Right, sorry,  _shorty_ –”  


In a blink, you’ve got a fist secured in the cotton fabric of his shirt. In the light of the fire, you watch Poe’s eyes wide as you yank him close – brows set in anger, you point with the hand clutching your beer. 

“You call me that one more time, I’ll put this bottle through that pretty face of yours, fly boy.”  


There’s a tense moment then – silence strikes the air around you and you can see other Resistance pilots still and watch the encounter in your peripherals. Whispers begin, eyes trained on the infamous Black Squadron leaders as they butt heads for the second time in two days. Quietly, pilots slip credits to one another, waiting for the first punches to be thrown.

Poe’s expression fleeting between surprise and amusement. Suddenly aware of the crowd, though, the brunette shifts a bit on his hips and clears his throat. He blinks away the antagonizing look. He settles on one of mock-seriousness. 

Not any better.

“What, you don’t like the nickname?”  


You shove him backwards, toss your beer back and leave him by the fire.

Your middle finger is the cause of a chorus of whoops and jeers from the nearby Rapier Squadron, cementing Poe in his place to watch you saunter off.

“Fuck off, Commander.”  


* * *

The next morning, it’s the same sort of tension – except, instead of racing, you start the morning locked in a debrief with Leia and Poe. You’re silent the whole time, knee bouncing up and down and up and down as Leia highlights the location where you and Poe will make contact with the spy.

Voss is a bustling planet with a number of growing cities. Faelar – one on the Eastern side of the main continent – is where you and Poe would depart for tomorrow morning by 0500. In theory, you should make contact by mid-week, but Leia insists on buffer time of two days in case the liaison gets nervous. Can’t have valuable First Order intel running off.

Leia dismisses you both and by 0830, you’re in the mess hall trying to scarf down breakfast in peace.

Poe has other plans.

You can feel the weight of him settle beside you on the mess bench. 

He drops his oats and starfruit, stretching before tapping his spoon twice on the counter and digging in. He does it all, seemingly aware, of how irritated his mere  _presence_ makes you. 

“What’s wrong,  _Punchy?”_  he says finally and you feel your face twitch.  


“Seriously?”  


“What?” he mutters through a full mouth, “I decided to do some  _digging_ through your old academy files –”  


You angrily turn back to your meal, jamming your spoonful of bland oats into your mouth. 

Poe gets this smug look on his face at your apparent resignation. The corners of his lips quirk upwards and if you’d have seen it, you probably would have throttle him with your spoon. 

“S’ really  _fitting_ , you know.”  


“Yeah, well,” you say with finality, “Not all of us get our titles handed to us on a silver platter.”  


Oof.

_A jab._ And well aimed by the gauge of his reaction.

You’re standing then and he’s following, brows set in something more severe than irritation – Poe’s shoulders tense, dark eyes set on you like he might snap.

“What did you just say to me…?”  


“You heard me,” you say, dumping the remainder of your trash and turning on your heel. You stride from the trash, moving to jab a finger into his chest, “I didn’t get the  _privilege_ of having high-ranking rebellion officers as parents. It’s called  _nepotism_. Look it up.”  


Poe snatches your wrist, anger flaring in his face. “Shut up –”

“Oh, sorry? Did that hit home?” you pull away from him, “You’re a poster-boy. Nothing more. Snap and I are the one doing the real work on missions. We keep you  _alive._ So when I take hits, I take them for  _you_  –”  


“Shut up.”  


“No,” you laugh, egging him on, “I’m not going to shut up. Because you know I’m  _right_.”

Poe’s composure snaps at your laugh.

“At least I’m not some farmland trash. I don’t have disciplinary strikes on my record. I wasn’t nearly  _thrown_ from the academy –”  


“ _Farmland trash?_ You’re from  _Yavin_ –”  


“And don’t even get me started on the navigation scores –”  


“You  _grew up in a literal bog,_ you fucking –”  


“Ooh, look at me, I’m  _the top of my class!_ Oh, no, I crashed  _once_ and now  _I only do my own repairs!_ I don’t  _trust_ people! What’s that Jessika?  _Oh, sure_  –”  


You land a punch on Poe Dameron for the second time in three days. 

The next morning, at 0500, you board that standard issue shipping freight bound for a week long mission to Voss alongside Poe. 

Neither of you say a word.

It’s going to be a long week.


	4. Engine Trouble.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Poe run into trouble on day one. Even still, things aren't looking up.

Neither of you speak a word to each another for an entire day.

And – listen, that’s  _hard_ work, because the Corellian VCX-100 light freighter is not meant to be operated nor inhabited by two stubborn, reckless pilots trying to ignore one another completely. The cockpit is small and the hallways are even smaller – the two bunks in the back of the cabin sit adjacent and unused. You’d opted to dozing in the swivel gun’s reclined seat in the belly of the freighter while Poe claimed the captain’s seat.

It’s also hard to  _not_ speak a word to your co-pilot when the Corellian VCX-100 light freighter is essentially  _falling apart._

On the second day of travel towards Voss, you’re startled awake by Poe’s loud exclamation followed by a dangerous tremor that rocks the entire freighter. 

“ _Shit!”_  


You spring up immediately, eyes pulled wide as you vault up the steep stairs, two at a time, to the second level of the ship – another hard shake vibrates through the cabin and you lose your balance, hands hitting the wall as your try to regain your balance. You curse.

“Poe!”  


He’s in the cockpit, eyes wide as he tries the trigger switch for the gears – the hyper-drive is locked up, power readings escalating fast; the Resistance Commander flicks the switch up and down and up and down and then drives his fist into the dashboard. He hears you call his name. Pushing a hand through his curls, Poe shoulders raise as he throws his hands.

“I didn’t  _do anything!”_  


_“_ What is  _going_ on?!”  


Another mournful wail. And, then, the light freighter falls out of hyper-space with three jagged stalls.  _CHUG, CHUNG CHUG._ You fall forward again, throwing yourself through the threshold of the cockpit and catching yourself on Poe’s captain’s chair.

The back boosters make this horrible sound, tied between a choke and a cough, before cutting completely. Poe’s frozen, hands raised from the controls in the cockpit.

There’s a single beat of a moment where you both exhale, thinking  _maybe_ that was the end of it. Just a faulty hyper-drive. An easy fix. As long as you don’t lose power, then it’s probably nothing –

And then the entire ship goes dark and you’re bathed in the dim glow of the emergency lights. 

“Son of a bitch.”

And then the alarms start. 

Part of you wonder if this was part of Leia’s plan.

You both throw yourselves down the catwalk, boots clamoring against the metal grates and skidding into the engine room with BB-8 and A3-C8 in tow.   


The power-conductor is cracked, high-grade battery acid leaking from the container and creating a sparking concoction all along the hyper-drive’s transmission. Essentially, it’s eating away at the container making sure you and Poe don’t get stuck in a never-ending quantum leap. 

(Honestly, you’d rather throw yourself out the airlock than get stuck on this ship with him for the rest of eternity.)

So, yeah, you’re panicking.

And the  _AANG AANG AANG_ of the alarms over-head aren’t helping. 

“I need rags,” you say from underneath the engine’s main component, eyes wide as the hyper-drive whines and shakes, core glowing at  _white blue._ Not good. Not good at all. Your voice is strained, “Like  _now,_ Poe –”  


“Where the  _pit_ do I find rags?!” he yells, tearing through the toolboxes scattered along the far wall. He’s no better, panic biting at his nerves as he curses and trips over the piping for the exhaust port.  


“I don’t  _know,”_ you snap, fingers moving fast to detach the wiring to the corroded battery. A drop of acid sizzle hot on the transmission, “But, could you just  _hurry up_?”  


“Ah!” he cheers, securing a rag from one of the far bins. He slides to his knees by your side, offering the tattered fabric covered in grease, “Here, take this –”  


You’re fast to snatch and cover the battery in said rag, proceeding to unceremoniously yank it from it’s spot above the now burning hyper-drive transmission. You chuck the engine battery across the room, ignoring the wide-eyed look Poe gives you as it flies by his head. You then proceed to jam your hand in the new opening between the belt mechanisms and manually cut the hyper-drive off with a hard yank of a bundle of wires. 

The hot blue glow dies nearly instantly and so do the alarms overhead. 

You deflate. 

And then Poe speaks slowly.

“Did… you just  _throw_ our engine battery across the room…?”  


From your spot on the floor, you raise your head and give him an incredulous look.

“What, did you want me to let it eat away at the  _hyper-drive?”_  


_“_ We… oh my god…  _we needed that!”_  


“It was  _corroded_ , Poe – maybe if you’d done a  _pre-flight check_ , then you would have  _noticed –”_  


_“Oh,_ so this is  _my_  fault now?”  


You ungracefully wiggle out from under the engine then, huffing and ignoring how your hair goes wild. You’re sweating, grease smeared across your forehead. He watches from his spot on his knees, brows set in annoyance. Despite the circumstances, he’s still typical Poe.

Poster-boy.

~~Handsome.~~

“I’m just saying,” you chirp, “This whole thing could have been avoided –”  


Oh,  _god,_ you grind his gears. And press his buttons…  _jam_ his buttons. Punch them. And just…  _kriff,_ you’re so  _irritating_ – his jaw sets back in annoyance, arms crossing as he tries to ignore the grease smear across your jaw. 

“Why didn’t  _you_ do the pre-flight check, then, huh?”

“That’s the  _commanding officer’s job,_ Poe!”

A pause.

“… It is?”  


“ _Yes!”_ you throw your hands, “Oh my god!  _You_ didn’t… you didn’t  _know_ that?”  


“I don’t fly  _freighters_ –”  


“Do you even  _do_ pre-flight checks?”  


“Yes!” he cries, “ _Sometimes!”_

“Oh my  _god._ ”  


You’re standing then, moving across the engine room and wiping your hands on the fabric of your pants. Your boots rattle the grate underfoot. Poe follows as you begin to rummage through the supply cabinets surrounded the dimly lit engine room. There isn’t much here, but with a little luck, maybe there’s enough to hop you to the next planet and get you surface-side for some repairs. 

“Alright, Miss  _I can fix anything,_ what’s your plan now?”  


“I’ve  _never_ said that –”  


“Yeah, well, whatever,” Poe yelps, throwing his hands. By his foot, BB-8 gives and affirmative whir, “I mean, you just lobbed half our engine across the room – you gunna just… tape it back together?”

“Maybe.”  


Poe scoffs, jamming his thumb your way. “ _Maybe_ , hear her BB-8 – ‘ _maybe’_. Yeah, okay –”

You shove a roll of electrical tape his way, face screwed in annoyance as you lean into the deep set locker and rummage with a set of wires and wire cutters. Poe’s eyes narrow under thick lashes.

“Poe,” you chirp, “Keep talking and I  _will_ tape your mouth shut.”  


“Not gunna deck me?”  


“No,” you bite back, “My knuckles hurt.”  


He gives you a look – if you weren’t so annoyed, you might have laughed.

“Your…  _right_. Your  _knuckles_ hurt… What about  _my face_?!”  


The bundle of here-and-there’s in your arms drags his attention to the astro-droid by your ankles. A3-C8 rolls back and forth, beeping happily as you side step around Poe and move towards the engine. You plop the repair parts down and Poe is actually a bit impressed – tape and wires and a bundle of putty? 

You move, tugging a pair of gloves from your pile and wiggling them on. You pick up a small wrench and flip it once, eyes trained on the pile around you. 

“If we get this thing working,” you pause, motioning between you and your purple and yellow droid. Your wrench taps the discarded battery, “Can you fly it?”  


In a second, his irritation melts away.

“I can fly anything.”  


* * *

Utapau, from above, doesn’t look like much.

The age old Separatist hide-out hadn’t changed much since the final days of the war; it now operates mostly as a go-between from the mid-rim to the outer-rim. 

Lucky for you and Poe and your two little astro-droids, it’s the perfect place to land and try and square away repairs.

That is, until a little Utai named Grol, laughs in your face when you ask if they have any spare Corellian VCX-100 light freighter parts laying around for purchase.

“He’s laughing,” Poe deadpans, “Why is he laughing?”  


You lean, muttering a quick: “I don’t think they make VCX-100′s anymore.”

“Stopped making 30 years ago,” Grol points, shoulders shaking, “Better off buying new ship! Grol give you good price, yes? Trade in – give us parts. Grol and Grog give you good price.”

"What’s the catch, pal?” Poe jumps in, “You and your brother gunna rip us off?”

“Grog not brother.”

Your eyes wide, mouth snapping shut. You reach, grip digging into Poe’s arm through his flight jacket. You whisper. “I think that’s –”

Grog, beside Grol, crosses  _her_ arms. 

“ _Wife and I_ give you good deal –” Grol sneers, “And Grol not kick your ass.”  


Poe just freezes before speaking quickly.

“…Yeah, you know, I think that’s fair. Totally fair.”  


* * *

The Allanar N3 light freighter you trade for has a  _ghastly_ paint-job but it’s in good enough condition that you’re not afraid it’s going to fall apart on take off. 

While Poe exchanges credits with Grol and Grog, you venture through the cab and into the underside of the ship – you’re mid-way through the flight pre-check, humming contently, when Poe clears his throat and scares the living  _daylights_ out of you.

You jump half a mile in the air, yelp strangled when your forehead collides hard with the plating under the engine belt. You roll then, gloved hands flying to grip the site of impact as your curse.

From your spot under the engine, you can hear Poe laughing. 

~~If you weren’t _busy worrying over a potential concussion_ you might have enjoyed the sound of it.~~

“Sorry – sorry, I just…” he snorts, smothering it with the back of his hand, “Sorry, I was going to say we’re all set to roll, but I think what just happened is called  _karma,_ Punchy.”  


“Yeah,” you grit out, “Yeah, I think  _so_.”  


Rolling out from under the engine, you huff. You rub the spot with your palm, blinking up at him with squinted eyes. You’re honestly surprised the transaction went so quickly. And Poe came out unscathed. 

“Grog didn’t castrate you?” 

There’s only a hint of surprise in your voice.  


“No,” Poe says, offering a hand. You accept it, leveraging your weight and pulling yourself up, “She’s really at the perfect height, though –”  


“Shame,” you chirp, pulling your hand from your head and blinking at your palm, “Am I bleeding?”  


“No,” Poe says, eyeing you over his shoulder as he ascends the engine room steps, “Only wounded your pride, Punchy, I promise.”  


You huff, trying to shake the laugh that’s creeping up your chest.

Poe freezes.

“You’re laughing –”  


“I’m not –” you sneer, pushing past him and moving through the – thankfully – wider hallway to the cockpit.  


“You  _are,”_ Poe grins, hands in the air as he widens his strides to catch up, “It’s okay. Go ahead, laugh it up –”  


“Shut up.”  


“Was it the castration joke? Or the wounded pride that got you? Combo hit?”  


You don’t even  _try_ to smother the smile on your face. Instead, you drop into the co-pilot’s seat and chuck your gloves his way when he follows suit. 

“C’mon, flyboy,” you jab, “Prove it that you can fly anything.”  


“Is that a  _challenge_ I hear?”  


You lean back, kicking your boots up on the dash. You motion across the dash, brows pulled upwards. “You’re the one who said it… My name’s Poe Dameron, I can fly  _anything_.”

You imitate him on the last part. It’s not very good. You make a mental note to practice that a bit more.

His eyes don’t break from yours when he flicks the ignition on, happily priming the hyper-drive and leaning back into the Captain’s seat. “ _One_ , I don’t sound like that –”

You shrug.

“ _Two_ , I did, didn’t I?”  


And he can fly it. Take off is a little rough, but after only hitting  _one_  platform on the way up – “ _Oh, jeez, yeah, BB-8, I see it now. _Sorry! Sorry.”_  _– Poe gets you both into the sky with relative ease. 

You won’t lie when you say you’re a little thankful to leave that rust bucket behind on Utapau – the vomit colored Allanar N3 you’d traded it in for not only  _smells_ better, but it’s a bit lighter on it’s boosters. There’s no immediate defensive precautions and even though you will miss your little gunner position a bit, your happy to be cruising a bit faster. Nothing sucks like a slow freighter, especially when you’re used to speed runs in an X-Wing.

And, I mean, all of that aside, you were barely a day away from Voss.

No one would want to jack this ship. You didn’t even have any cargo.

Once out of the atmosphere, you’re fast to doze off – Poe doesn’t say anything, just silently wonders if maybe you  _are_ concussed. He can’t remember the last time you two sat closer than three feet and didn’t wanna kill each other the entire time. It’s nice, he thinks. 

Within the hour, he too is clocking out; BB-8 and autopilot take over and for a cycle or two, you both actually get some decent sleep.

And then. you wake up to the warning  _wail_ of another set of alarms.

This time, the shadow that looms over takes the cockpit tells you that you spoke too soon.

_No one would want to jack this ship, your ass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, development.  
> If you want to see more Poe stuff, I write about him a lot on my tumblr!  
> Follow me over at @whirlybirbs.


	5. Breezy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Poe have a very rough 8 hours. Enter Bala-tik, Teemo the Hutt and one metal bikini. Poe realizes his own jealousy.

Poe Dameron has always been an  _optimist_.  


Genuinely, he’s a good guy – smart and quick-witted with a good head in his shoulders. In the worst of moments, he’s always able to look forward and keep his chin up. Must be a  _genetic_ thing; his mother was always the same way. Shara, a spearhead in the Rebellion and his own life, had an affinity for spinning the world on her finger – the sun was  _always_  shining if you looked through the clouds.

He’s well-aware it’s infuriating – I mean, the amount of times he wanted to  _quit_  as a kid? To throw in the helmet after a failed time run? To land for good after stalling again and again? Shara was always there on the back porch, ready with a kiss and a smile and a few words of encouragement. The optimism radiated off of her and Poe swore he’d be like her one day.

Kes Dameron? Not so much the optimist. The sergeant was frequently cleaning up the ‘can do’ attitude of his wife – not that he minded. He loved her to the farthest moon and back forever. Kes would do anything for his wife. After all, the retired-Pathfinder was a  _fighter_.

You remind Poe a lot of his dad.

Hot-headed, short-fuse. Your moral compass is strong but your fighting spirit is stronger.

If you’d known this week long mission would have you wading through metaphorical bantha-shit, you probably would have just had Leia ground and transfer you. After all, Poe had stripped your flight privileges  _twice_  before the assignment of this mission (once per command and once per landing gear murder); it was  _hell_ , but being grounded meant you wouldn’t be wading through said metaphorical bantha-shit.

Nor be in a metal bikini on in Mos Shuuta, Tatooine, chained to a Hutt Cartel crime-lord and watching as he slobs down some vaguely human-shaped meat leg.

Metal bikinis, for all intents and purposes, are just plain  _offensive_.

I mean, there’s no functionality – not to mention, no support – and as you’re forced to your knees and hit the dusty floor of the Mos Shuuta cantina, you’re pretty positive the gathering crowd of onlookers behind you can see the entirety of your backside. You’re aware that’s kind of the point, but you still scowl and wince at the delicate jingling of the body jewelry across your chest.

Too  _breezy_.

Poe’s pretty optimistic, usually. You know, in recent hours that optimism has  _really_  been worn down. Sans BB-8 and burdened with his Lieutenant in chains, Poe’s not really sure if this plan is going to work. The New Republic Navy taught you both to be resourceful and yeah,  _sure_ , sometimes getting out alive meant following through on a plan that was less than ideal, but no one  _ever_  told you this would be your legacy: being paraded for sale in front of your flight-commander.

In a metal bikini.

Poe’s hung up on the bikini, too.

“So,” he starts, clearing his throat as bidders begin to circle up, “Teemo…”

Teemo the Hutt – a large, olive colored Hutt and cousin of  _the_  Jabba the Hutt – is reclined before you in a nest of plush, lavish pillows. The marcan herbs burning in his hookah stings sweetly in your throat as the Hutt pulls and exhales a cloud of the intoxicant your way. He then chomps on the meat-leg, groaning while he chews thoughtfully. At the puff of hookah and bad meat breath, your lip curls in a snarl. Teemo, unsatisfied with the display of attitude, unceremoniously yanks at the chained collar around your neck.

In Huttese, he grovels out a slow: “<She is fiesty>.”

It’s directed at Poe, who’s really going to get it for this plan – he can tell by the look on your face. He’ll be lucky if he survives getting you both off planetside. (If the plan even works, that is.) You’ll probably smother him in his sleep.

Absentmindedly, he wonders how the Cartel didn’t learn a lesson from Leia, a self-made Hutt-slayer. Chains,  _really?_  A little antiquated, don’t you think?

You grit your teeth, settling back on your knees as Poe steps forward from Teemo’s side; his hands are raised, face masked in something  _mockingly_ -suave. He’s a good actor, but his usual charm is fading pretty fast; blame the buyers moving to  _sniff,_ literally  _sniff,_  his Lieutenant. He’s trying to play the roll as slave-dealer, trying to trade you for a ship and then, later that night, bust you out of your chains so you can both slip away.

“Hey,  _buddy_ ,” Poe snaps at a cantina dweller who gets a bit too close. He cocks a hip, pointing, “You touch her, you’re  _buying_  her.”

You’re convinced he gets off on this – y’know, rescuing the damsel in distress. Typical Dameron. You turn, stealing a deadly glare in the direct of the male Twi’lek leering. He quickly backs off. Poe turns back to Teemo.

“She’s  _punchy_ ,” Poe shifts from boot to boot, “It’s all part of the package, pal.”

The metal-bikini-slave-trade situation is the icing on top of the last 16 hours.

_First_ , you and Poe were rudely awakened by a low-ranking Kanjiklub lieutenant with an unfortunate name and his ragtag team of even lower-ranking gang members boarding your ship. You’ve never been so thankful to Kanjiklub. After all, it’s not Bala-Tik – he was the last person you wanted to see right now.

(Safe to say you two hadn’t gotten off on the right foot, despite the smuggler’s insistence on a movie and dinner.)

Poe’s first instinct, of course, was to fight – but you’re aware of the gang’s reputation and you’re not about to make the situation worse; no doubt you’ve got a bounty on your head, even it if is from a rival gang who is notoriously well-known for collecting said bounties. Credits are credits, even if the bounty was placed by Bala-tik himself. So, in a rare moment, _you_ weren’t the one trying to punch your way out of things. In fact, you were dragging Poe by the collar down to the lower part of the engine room.

With some luck, and a good hiding spot, you thought you could maybe get out of this unscathed. They might think it’s a dead ship - or abandoned. And you probably could have. That is if Poe would have  _shut_   _up_  and  _hid_.

“They have a small ship, that means small crew –”

“It’s Kanjiklub,” you seethed, drawing his face close as you round the corner. Your finger jabbed his chest, “Do you  _want_  to get us killed?”

Poe’s brows furrowed. “How do you know it’s –”

There was a loud clang overhead signalling they’ve docked. And as much as Poe wanted to figure out how the pit you know it’s the Kanjiklub (you’d seen their callsign scrawled under the hull when they’d pulled the Allanar N3 light freighter into their EM field – not to mention you’d met up with plenty of these medium sized freighters before), he’s distracted when the sound of boots meets his ears. Both you and Poe flinched then, spurred to hurry and pull at the grates.

“Poe, will you  _lift_  –”

_“I am lifting –”_

The crawl space was small, maybe too small, but you gestured for Poe to go first. Above you on the catwalk, BB-8 and A3-C8 rolled back and forth, whirring hurriedly down at you and Poe. That was your cue.

_They’re coming!_

“C’mon,  _go_ ,” you whispered harshly, nudging Poe’s shoulder and quickly following him into the crawl space, “I can  _hear_  them –”

“I’m going –  _ow_ , ow,  _ow_ ,” Poe was cursing as you land in his lap, “God, kid, the  _knee_  –”

“I’m  _trying_ , this isn’t exactly  _roomy_ ,” you sneered, “And I’m  _not_  a kid –”

Aforementioned low-ranking Kanjiklub lieutenant and crew did a good enough job dragging you both from the hull after you’d been caught mid-whisper-argument; BB-8 and A3-C8 were hauled away, whirring and beeping as they’d yanked up the flooring under the engine room to find you in Poe’s lap, his hand slapped over your mouth. Proximity ignored, you’re hauled up and slapped into stasis cuffs.

“Seriously?” you snarked, “C’mon,  _bite_   _me_ , stasis cuffs? Who are you, Guavians?”

On that note, you were promptly clocked with the back end of a laser-sight bolt action blaster and wake up on the floor of the bridge of Jax Dag’s bridge.

_Jax_   _Dag_ , Poe thinks,  _is a pretty unfortunate name_. The kid was young – no doubt trying to make a name for himself. Too bad the name is just…  _bad_. It sounds wrong. Kinda like a swear. Poe doesn’t really feel comfortable sounding it out in his head.  _Jaaax_   _Daaaaag_. Definitely a swear.

Your own bleary eyes caught his own then, and Poe felt himself deflate a bit. You weren’t dead. On any other day, he probably would have made an off-hand comment about how much of a shame that was. But, right now? He’d never been happier to see your half-concussed scowl. He would asked how you’re feeling if, well… If Jax Dag wasn’t already leering at you. In hindsight, Poe’s starting to realize a trend. He can’t  _stand_ that.

“Nice of you to join us,” Jax chirped at you and Poe felt a flare of anger in his chest. Jax’s fingers dug into your chin, “Sleep well?”

“Get your hands  _off_  of her,” Poe growled, eyes set in a seriousness you’re not used to seeing. He’s not really sure where that came from. Did he get hit in the head? Your own look says the same thing.  _Shutting_   _up. Shutting up now._

Jax ignored the comment. Instead, he pointed to the ship in the loading bay. The vomit colored Allanar N3 sat, dim and freshly abandoned. From your spot on the floor, you tested the stasis cuffs. Still there. Your head still hurt – and Jax’s face isn’t the nicest thing to wake up to. Poor kid. Bad name, bad looks and as you come to find out, a terrible sense of bartering.

Somehow, after an hour of eyelash batting and lip chewing, you’d convinced the kid to drop you and Poe on the nearest planet in trade of the ship, all the credit on either of you, and –

“The droids.”

“No,” Poe scowled, trying to cut the games, “No way. The droids don’t leave our side.”

“Then no deal,” Jax Dagger battled back, “And I call Bala-Tik up, turn you in, and  _then_  I take the droids.”

You nearly fall over yourself at the mention of the rival syndicate’s Leader and Poe noticed. “Take the droids.”

He turned, then, and looked at you like you’d had eight tentacles and a pit for a mouth.  _Turn you in?_

BB-8 howls in protest.  _BeeOOOoop?_

“The droids,” you said, “Are worth you dropping us in the closest town when we land.”

And so, here you are. In a metal bikini. In a musty cantina, chained to Teemo the Hutt who smells like hookah and meat and sweat. Poe saunters in front of you, boots dirtied from the Tatooine sand and you wonder why the hell you hadn’t proposed to make  _him_  the slave – half the cantina was looking at him like he was an  _entire_   _meal_. You’re not sure why the leering is making you so mad, I mean,  _c’mon_. He probably smells like the wrong end of a tauntaun right now.

But still, it’s infuriating how  _good_  he looks – shirt matted with sweat, sand caked along his jacket. His curls are stuck to his forehead, and despite how sweaty he is thanks to the Mos Shuuta heat, he’s still looking like a verified poster-boy. The dark line of five o’clock shadow lining his jaw is more dirt than anything. You’re irritated he looks dashing and even more, that you’re even thinking this way.

Maybe you hit your head.

(The landing had been rough. When Jax Dag said he’d “drop you off” he’d been being literal.)

All the while, Poe doesn’t  _feel_  like he looks good. He can feel the prick of a sunburn along his nose and the grit of sand in his pants and –  _Pit_ , he smells. He knows he smells. He can feel the sweat running down his back just standing here in the stale air of the cantina. You, at least, had been given a shower and new outfit before you’d been paraded in front the cantina like a piece of prized steak. Not that he was a fan of that. At all. And he’s a little irritated he feels so keen on throwing you his jacket so you can cover up.

He  _definitely_  hit his head.

“You look like you’re interested, Teemo.”

Poe’s voice is even-tempered, hands on his hips as he stands in-front of you.

“<Can she dance?>”

You don’t speak Huttese; you’d instead opted to learn Mando’a in the academy. When Teemo wriggles and leans to look at you around Poe, you try to hide your evident confusion. It had sounded like a question. When Poe turns on a heel, hands still on his hips and his face is warped into something tied between fear and apology, your stomach sinks. You have a bad feeling about this.

“Of  _course_  she can dance.”

Oh, you could  _kill_  him.

There’s that can-do attitude of his – and here  _you_  are, cleaning up the mess of aforementioned attitude. With a single wave of Teemo’s greasy meat-leg, the band strikes a tune that is so not something you’d ever dance to on a night out. From your spot on the ground, your face is set with such a heavy sense of mortification, Poe has to mouth a very short: _“I’m so sorry”._

The singer in the far corner chirps a cat-call of encouragement your way.  _T’Snooza and the Blur-tones_  reads their drum-set. T’Snooza, you’re assuming, gives a loud bellow, music striking a crescendo. You thought jatz died during the last Galactic War. The music genre is just…  _unfortunate_.

You’re yanked to your feet then, eyes a bit wild – the braid on your head swings as you snarl and try to gain your balance.

“I can’t dance.”

“That’s –  _c’mon_ ,” it’s Poe, eyes wild, “Don’t be  _shy_ , kid. Show ‘em what you can do –”

You’re about to say screw it, about to try and get into some sort of groove when suddenly:

“Shut off tha’  _kriffin_ ’ music!”

Every head in the room swivels, albeit Teemo’s turns a bit slower, to land on the man in the entrance of the cantina – he’s tall, swathed by four red outfitted men. Poe knows the crest on their chest nearly immediately.

_Guavian Death Gang._

You’ve never been happier to see Bala-tik in your life.

Oh, you could  _kiss_  him.

“We’d like tae make a purchase.”

Suddenly, the excited  _BOOOWEEEEEEPs_  of A3-C8 and BB-8 roll through the doorway in tow. The GDG make quick work on crowd control, the high-ranking gang members clearing the way for Bala as he crosses the opening before Teemo and snorts.

“Gold isn’t really yer’ color, is it?”

Bala-tik, a bit like a metal bikini, is a man built on impracticalities – if he sees something and he wants it, he usually gets it. As leader of one of the most notorious black-market affiliated gangs, he’s got access and a lot of it. Just not to people like  _you_ ; he’d love to say the pretty New Republic Navy pilot with affinities for T-68 X-Wing mods was his, but he  _can’t_. And that? _That_  infuriates him.

And the eyeing that’s going on right now? Yeah, that’s infuriating  _Poe_.

“Sorry, catch me up,” Poe chirps, “Do you two  _know_  each other?”

“An’ this must be yer new Commander –”

Poe is getting sized up. He know what this is. The pilot immediately squares his shoulders and his jaw, dark eyes narrowing on the man in front of him. Bala-tik is about the same height as him, if not a bit younger, with a haircut that leaves a lot to be desired. Poe would do something about the way Bala is looking at him if weren’t for the four armored pirates circling him.

“Teemo,” Bala-tik raises his voice, eyes not breaking from Poe once, “How much for ‘er?”

A burp. And then:

“<800 credits>.”

“Woah, woah,  _woah_ ,” Poe starts, turning to raise his hands at the Hutt, “We’re a  _package_ deal.”

At that, half the cantina jumps into a roar, fists raised with credits clutched tightly. The uproar, as unexpected as it is, is enough to catch Bala-tik off guard. You move then, hand pressing gently against the armored chest of the Guavian Death Gang leader. His eyes jump to you, softening a bit at the gesture. Very quickly, years of unreciprocated feelings fly to the surface and Poe is awed by the way you play him. Another one lost to the wrath of the metal bikini.

“Bala, please,” you urge, “Just get us out of here.”

There’s a moment’s pause. You can see the sway in his eyes – in all the years you’d known the black-market arms dealer, you’d always been good at reading him. He’s an open book if you know the language. Raising your face, you sport your best enamored look. Thank god for the holovids of Mandalorian soap-operas you and L’ulo had been binging.

“You saved my droid?” it’s sultry.

Poe’s whole face scrunches up. And then he sees your hand.

Bala-tik’s jaw is slack, voice uneven. You lean a bit closer.

Poe watches as your fingers land on the holster along Bala-tik’s hip.

“Couldn’t a’ had th’ Kanjiklub recyclin’ ‘im.”

“Oh?” you bite your lip, “I guess I should say  _thank you_ , then, huh?”

You temptress. Poe’s impressed. You’ve got the gang-leader around your finger. And currently, the poor sap’s eyes are closed and chin jutting as he leans in for a kiss.

In a flash, Bala-tik’s rifle is tossed into Poe’s hands.

In a flash, the cantina descends into outright  _chaos_.

Instead of a kiss, the crime-lord gets a right-hook; he drops to the ground and you follow, ducking and clearing a way for Poe to take down the two guards to his right. The yank of a chain brings you to your knees and you snarl.

“<No, no, little girl.>”

_That_  boils something in your blood.

You move fast, distracting the other two armored-thugs as you bound up the Hutt’s platform and tug your chain in tow. The cantina has now succumb to the chaos and is scattering into a massive brawl, drinkers going for the expensive armor and gadgets on the GDG thugs while Teemo bellows out orders for his own guards.

You choke those orders right off.

Poe’s distracted, slack-jawed and trying to make fast work of the Gamorrean guards as you pull a royal Leia and put an end to Teemo the Hutt with his own chain. There’s something to be said about it, something awfully poetic about you snuffing out an in-famous slave dealer with his own device for control. With one short war-cry, you finish the deed as the Hutt’s tongue lashes out; a few short moments later, he stills and you huff. Your hair is wild, back slick with sweat as you stumble from the platform and claw at the collar around your neck.

“Hold this.”

You gratefully take the blaster.

Poe slides to your side behind the platform, fingers working nimbly at the collar there – you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. When the metal collar finally falls from your neck, you exhale. You try and catch your breath. Your hands hit Poe’s chest.

“We need to go,” your eyes hit the far door which frames more GDG thugs pouring through it, “ _Now_.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Punchy,” he chirps, snagging your hand and standing fast, “Bee-bee, Ace! Find us a  _ride_ , will you?!”

“Yeah, alright,” you chirp, yanking your hand back, “Nice try – I can handle myself, Dameron –”

Blaster fire rockets over your shoulder and you shriek, no protesting in the slightest when Poe grabs you again, manhandling you in front of him and out the back door. His hands linger on your waist, pressing you forward and into the hot sun of the Mos Shuuta – quickly, the two of you chase after the two astro-droids peeling around the cantina to the makeshift airfield behind of it. The selection on ships is slim, but the YT-2400 that the two droids break into will do, even if it is older than both you and Poe and smells like soured Kaadu milk.

Dropping the blaster at the door, you break from Poe.

“You fly, I’ll shoot!”

The engine starts with a cough and a sputter. The gunner turret is stiff, but as you swing wide and train on the crew of Guavian’s approaching, you can’t complain about the kick. You give an excited shout and lay down cover, fingers moving to charge the front canons – you swing again, body jewelry jingling as the freighter rattles up and Poe begins the take-off sequence. But it’s slow.

You can see the GDG loading into their ships.

Bad news.

“ _Any day now,_  Poe –”

“Gimme a second,” he hollers, “Tryin’ my best up here!”

You throw yourself from the turret, bounding up into the cockpit and hands hitting the back of Poe’s chair as the hyper-drive stutters.

“Come on, beautiful,” Poe mutters, “Come on.”

Another flick of the drive.  _EEENNNHHH-CHU-CHUNK._

Your eyes dart across the dash – you spare him one single, annoyed look before punching the landing lock.

And with that, you and Poe and your droids slip away from Mos Shuuta and the GDG in a flash of blue.

In hyperspace, you both melt into silence, your back hitting the seat of the co-pilot’s chair with a soft jingle. The metal of the ships floor is cold on your bare feet. Poe turns slowly, dark eyes watching you –

“ _Told_   _you_  the plan would work.”

Poe Dameron has always been an optimist.

“Next time,” you grit out, “ _You_  get to wear the metal bikini.”

Poe chews the inside of his lip. You can see the flicker of something on his face and you’re still watching him as he turns to punch in the coordinates for Voss. Crossing your arms, you can’t control the amusement in your tone.

“Oh,” you chirp, “Ooooh, no,  _go ahead,_  Dameron – chalk it up, laugh it up – go ahead. I get it, _yeah_ , really funny –  _she_   _can_   _dance_  –”

“I mean,” Poe jabs, “I knew you couldn’t – I had to try –”

“I can dance  _just_   _fine_ , thank you –”

“ _Oh?_  Is that how you and Bala-tik know one another?  _Dancing_ …?”

You snap your mouth shut, brows raising. Poe blinks over his shoulder at you. He knows instantly his tone has betrayed him – the way he said it showed his cards and the weird sense of jealousy that flares in his chest at the mere mention of the crime-lord’s name. You turn, standing and moving to place your hands on your hips. Your tone is accusatory.

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous –”

He’s trying not to stare at the soft dips of your hips.

“I can’t believe it, you’re  _jealous_.”

Poe snarls. “I am  _not_  jealous.”

“No?  _No_ , then what’s the problem –?”

“What’s the –  _really?_  – he’s the  _leader_  of an  _underground_   _gang_ , that’s the problem –”

“Oh,  _that’s_  the problem.”

“ _Yeah_.”

“Not the eyes – not the  _near_ - _kiss_  –”

“I don’t –  _no_ , that’s  _not_  –!” Poe throws his hands, finger darting into your face as he stands and moves to step around you. His eyes get caught on the low dip of the bikini and he’s fast to blink and recoil, “You are…  _infuriating_ , you know that? I saved our skins and  _here_   _you_   _are_  –”

“ _You_  saved our skins?” you jeer, arms crossed as you follow the fly-boy through the halls of the freighter. He stops at the back generator, eyes checking the readings there. You can’t believe him. He’s trying to do a pre-check mid-flight, “You’re  _kidding_  – can you, for one second, can you just admit you’re not  _always_  the hero, Dameron?”

“Oh, right,  _you’re_   _the_   _hero_  – the one in bed with Bala-tik –”

Your tone is sharp as you corner Poe, your own finger in his face. Your braid swings and your body chain catches the light.

“I am  _not_  in bed with that scum.”

“ _Reeaaaally?_ ” Poe’s tone is cold. His brows raise in faux-impressment.

“Really,” you seeth, “I am  _over_  that part of my life –”

“Sure didn’t look like it, Punchy –”

“What the  _kriff_  does that mean?!”

“I saw the way he looked at you,” Poe supplies, standing and moving to the opposite side of the room. The other generator’s readings distract his gaze from you, still traipsing around in the slave-outfit. You follow, face set in anger, “ _He_  clearly wasn’t over it - …  _Are you going to change?”_

“He’s delusional. He mistook buyer-loyalty for romance,” you bite, ignoring the changing comment, “It was never a thing, it will never  _be_  a thing.”

“Buyer-loyalty, huh?” Poe tries to feign his interest – he’s listening intently, hell-bent on trying to convince you otherwise. Your outfit jingles as you follow him down into the engine room. The venom is heavy in his voice.

“You’re not  _stupid_ , Poe,” the laugh you supply drags his eyes from the generator and to your face, “You can’t seriously  _believe_  the mods on my X-Wing are NRN-flight-compliant?”

“Wait…”

A pause. You blink at him expectantly. Poe’s interest in the engine is abandoned.

“…You bought  _mods_  from the GDG?”

“Of course,” you laugh, like it’s already been said, “What, you seriously think – … oh my god. Did you… think I built them  _myself?_ ”

Poe’s face falls.

“You did, you thought I –,” you cover your mouth, “Installed, yea, but those things are – you’re _kidding_. I told Snap about them. I thought…”

“Well,” Poe throws his hands, “Snap didn’t share that info!”

You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my god, what… what did you think I was going to say when I said ‘buyer-loyalty’?  _Spice?”_

“I don’t know!” he nearly shrieks, eyes darting down on impulse, “I don’t – you’re just… Could you  _change_?!”

“What, is the bikini  _distracting?_ ”

“Honestly,  _yes_  –!”

The meaning behind that statement hits you both and where anger was, awkwardness flies in.

“Well, I don’t have anything else to  _wear_ , Dameron,” you chirp, face suddenly hot with embarrassment. You’re suddenly very aware of his gaze and feel yourself shrinking a bit. You pull yourself away from the argument, arms crossed tightly over your chest now as a way of covering yourself.

Poe heaves a sigh, moving quickly to dig through the cargo bins on the far wall – inside, he finds a tunic, light cotton pants and a pair of boots that are one size too big for you. Shoving the bundle your way, Poe’s face is screwed up tight like he tasted something bitter. You avoid his gaze and he avoids yours.

“Here.”

“… Thanks.”

You pull the sheer fabric close to your behind as you ascend the stairs, trying to cover yourself up a bit. Still too  _breezy_. Poe tries not to stare.

When you’re out of earshot, BB-8 gives an amused whir from up above on the catwalk.

_Not jealous, my processor chip._

“Shut up, Bee-bee.”


End file.
